Thin, Broken Layers
by Dusked
Summary: Many unforgettable things can happen in the Forbidden Forest, and one moment in particular will stay with Hermione Granger until her dying days. One-shot.


_Here is a one-shot that has been lying around for about a month after I re-wrote it. I was unsure of re-uploading it because it's not my best work and I don't take much liking to it, but it was poking at me to put it up anyway. Hope you enjoy._

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_**Thin, Broken Layers**_

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She ran, alone, through the smashed pieces of brick and debris for the sake of staying alive. She couldn't stop now. Not even when her body was teetering on the edge of exhaustion, or that all her muscles ached dully from the continuous running, nor from the scorching flame that burnt her throat.

Flakes of hot ash littered her eyelashes, black smudges of soot stained exposed flesh, and gravel and chips of wood matted her sweat-dampened hair. Her heart bashed against her ribcage painfully, feeling as if it could crack through bone in another beat, and her breaths were coming out short and ragged with the occasional strangled cough that were a result of the billowing, dirty smoke.

The Battle of Hogwarts was at its peak. Hermione had found herself separated from her two best friends, Harry and Ron, and was now trying her hardest to conceal herself in the stark depths of the Forbidden Forest, for she would not be able to survive out in the chaos on her own.

Her breathing had calmed somewhat, but they were shaky. She was still trying to absorb the fact that there was a war taking place and that people were dying. She was drained, but her body still managed to force a shiver of fear up her spine, as the darkness of night overshadowed her silhouette and the fine wafts of smoke ghosted over her skin from the fire that lit the castle only yards away.

She was worried – no, _distraught _for everyone. Tormented and choking on anxiety, she stressed over what could be happening to them. The thought crawled beneath her skin, the images inflicting suffering and its own screwed up torture.

A Gryffindor wasn't a coward, nor were they usually so uncannily selfish. But the way Hermione was acting, it seemed as though she was the first to prove they did exist. How could she sit there? How could she sit there and _wonder _where her friends were instead of going to locate them? They could be hurt, getting tortured, or even worse – _dead._

Yet, here she sat, soaking in the absence of courage.

No. _No. _She was not _that _person. She didn't betray friends. She did not join this war for it not to be finished without her, whether she would alive for a victory, or if she died fighting. Whichever, she would go up, or go down with this war, now or never.

Determined, she attempted to lift herself from the rock that was furred with moss, but a sharp pain shot up her right leg, preventing her from doing so, and she collapsed down onto the moistened grass, missing her previous seat entirely.

Wincing, she reached down to the hem of her jeans and steadily and carefully eased it up her leg, clenching her jaw harder when the scuffed fabric scratched a tender spot on her flesh.

Her eyes widened when they focused on the blood oozing from a jagged gash along the middle of her calf and stopped at her ankle, blotching her white socks and jeans. Daringly, she pressed down on the sensitive skin, and bit her lips hard to subdue the pain.

Deftly pulling her wand from her back pocket, she flicked it over her leg and whispered, "Aguamenti."

A fierce sting rippled over her leg when the cold water connected with the cut, the blood washing away, and the wound now free of any dirt or fluff from her clothing. It didn't look as deep as she first thought, probably because of the amount of blood that had been produced.

She then cast a quick drying spell and a few healing charms. Soothing warmth swept over her leg, and all water dried up. A tingling sensation followed, and she watched as the open wound knitted back together, leaving a faint, white scar of marred skin.

She ran her hand over the healed skin that was still sensitive to touch and slightly sore. Once it was evident it was fully treated, she proceeded to get up again, and dusted down her clothes that had managed to attract a significant amount of dirt and grime.

A sudden loud crunching sound behind her snapped her from the moment. She spun around on her heel to find the source, but was only faced by the murky night and the gentle swishing of bushes and trees.

_No one is there, Hermione. I'm far too deep in the forest to be found, it would be unlikely for someone to track me so effortlessly, right? Damnit, stop acting so foolish._

Yes, she was imaging things. It was the trick of her imagination. It all fell together. She was tired, her mind dipping in and out of awareness, and the aftermath of injury were all playing with her. It was just imagination, that's all, just her –

Another crunch sounded, like someone stepping on a twig, and it was much more amplified than the first, which meant that the thing – or _person – _was getting closer by the second.

A thick, aching lump clawed up her throat, blood beginning to pump in her ears. Her heart pounded faster than a helicopter propeller, her hands suddenly slick with sweat.

Another crunch, and she took a step back, tightening the hold on her wand. Another, and another, and another, and then –

_Silence._

_Complete and utter silence._

Her breathing was shallow in anticipation, and she held her wand out in defence, yet nothing happened, which only made the situation that much more unnerving. The minutes ticked by agonizingly slowly, and when her arm grew stiff, she lowered her wand a fraction, which turned out to be a mistake.

Suddenly, a large figure emerged from the trees and charged at her, knocking the wand from her hand to the camouflaged, dank leaves, a hand enclosing around her neck, shoving her hard up a tree, all before she could even register what was happening.

Though the hand on her throat wasn't cutting off her air supply, it was still strong enough to hold her in place, effectively preventing her from escaping. The solid contours and muscles of her attacker were most likely bruising her less stronger and petite form. She watched, petrified, as the stranger bent down, his grip still firm around her neck, and easily retrieved her wand.

Once the person stood again, the moonlight cast a glow over them, making it possible for her to take in their features. A minute later, a retched, shocked gasp spilled from her lips.

Piercing blue eyes stared back at her, gleaming menacingly. A mat of grey hair covered his face, his skin an ugly dirty colour, and the two sharp points of fangs dug into his thin bottom lip as he smiled evilly at her, a smile that churned in Hermione's stomach. _Fenrir Greyback._

"Hello there, _sweetheart,_" he growled harshly, a rasp of air punctuating his voice, and the stale, natural door of his breath smothered her like a mask. "It's been quite a while since we last saw each other, hasn't it?"

She struggled uselessly against his hold, lifting a quivering leg, ready to kick him, but he caught her leg before she could even pull back to gather force. "Can't be doing that, can we? Are you going to be a good little girly and keep your leg to yourself?" he taunted, tensing his hand, the keen tips of his nails digging uncomfortably into her skin.

Again, ignoring his request, she wrestled again him, and kept her lips clamped in a tight line. She'd try anything, _anything, _to get away from this monster. But at this moment, it was bordering impossible.

He tsked and shook his head slowly. "It doesn't look like you obey orders very well."

Hermione swallowed, and finally opened her mouth. "Yes, well, I'd never take orders from some sick bastard like you," she spat viciously. She took on more bluntness than usual, barely making any difference, anyway, as he'd murder her either way. Even if her exterior displayed confidence, her voice wavered unnoticeably as all bravery was beginning to drain rapidly away.

"No matter, we can easily fix that," he smirked, pointing her wand at her and waving it deftly. Invisible vines started to twist around her body, ankles and wrists, securing her tightly to the tree. "There," he said, releasing his grip on her throat as it was undoubtedly not needed.

She eyed him anxiously as he stepped back for a better look of her, slipping her wand in his pocked and then cracking his knuckles, the sickening sound scraping her insides. "What do you _want?" _she asked quietly through gritted teeth. "Why are you doing this? Why didn't you kill me when you had the chance?"

He barked a laugh, his fangs flashing in the light. "When I _had _the chance? Darling, I still have it." he grabbed one of her curls roughly and twisted it around his finger. "I do intend to kill you, so you needn't worry about that, which by the way, will not be at all pleasant. But first, I'm going to have a little fun," he snarled suddenly, his upper lips curled ominously with the hint of dark amusement.

Fun? What did he mean by 'fun'? Whatever his definition was, she didn't want to find out.

Her heart thumped in her chest, and Greyback's ear twitched, as though he heard it himself. He stepped closer, their faces mere inches apart, enough to feel his moist, hot breath. He lifted a hand, the tip of his yellow nail grazing over her cheek, and she whipped her head away from him.

"You see," he started, digging his nail harder into her soft flesh. "I never did get what I was promised. That day in Malfoy Manor, watching you on the floor, knowing you'd soon be mind, it was... enticing." Then he swiped his nail along her skin, ripping into the tissue with a violent sting. Hermione had to bite the inside of her cheek to restrain the cry that was swiftly building.

The warm blood trickled down her cheek, trailing down her chin. Bile role in her throat when Greyback gathered the blood up with his finger, and then slowly – excruciatingly – licked it off. "Delicious," he hummed, savouring the taste. "If one drop tastes this good, I can't wait to get the whole load."

Tears prickled her eyes as she expected his torture. How he'd enjoy watching her suffer, hearing her beg and plead as he did his absolute worst. She didn't want to endure this; she didn't want to be alive.

Another smirk formed on his bloodstained lips as he tantalisingly dragged his hand down her face, down her shoulder and to her waist. "So sweet, so... innocent. This will be one I'll never forget," he said, slipping his calloused hand up her shirt, savagely squeezing and groping her skin.

A lone tear escaped from the corner of her eye and ran down her cheek, the salt burning the fresh cut. "Please," she whispered, now overcome by fear. "Please, don't do this," she pled. "Kill me, please."

He let out a hoarse chuckle. "Where would the fun be in that? I couldn't let a good Mudblood go to waste."

The hand on her waist inched higher. A choked sob escaped her lips, and she became hysterical, her words coming out a bubbling line of mess. "Please! Please don't do this!" she wept pathetically, trying to wrestle free from the constraints, but they did not give; they never would.

Squeezing her eyes shut, she attempted to block out all the pain, everything that was presently happening. It was the end. She waited, and yielded to what was going to come. The hand crept higher, higher and even higher, and then –

"STUPEFY!"

Greyback's hand was yanked back; gone, as he was thrown away from her, and landed to the ground with a dull thud. Even though his disgusting physical touch had disappeared, the mental weight of it had not.

But that voice. She hoped it was Harry or Ron, but it was far too low and masculine to be either. It sounded familiar, yet at the same time it was ridiculously unrecognisable.

She peeked through her lashes to see a man standing a few metres away from her, his wand still raised. It was harder to identify him due to the pitch-black robes and hood that was slung over his head, casting a shadow over his face, just about blending into the darkness surrounding him.

He started to take cautious steps towards the unconscious werewolf. "No! Don't go over to him! Your spell wasn't strong enough!" Hermione called out in warning, but the man ignored her, walking closer to him until he leant over Greyback.

Suddenly, the savage werewolf sat up and flung his arm out, his hand striking the midsection of the wizard above him, cutting through his robes and into the skin. The wizard grunted and staggered back, clutching onto his stomach, and before Greyback could cause anymore damage to either of them, the mystery man weakly lifted his wand and uttered the two words that made Hermione freeze.

"Avada Kedavra!"

The jet of green light burst from the tip of his wand and struck Greyback square in the chest. He fell rigid to the floor, his eyes set in a cloudy, blank stare, and his body motionless, the spot of Hermione's blood dry and visible on his lip.

The man walked unsteadily over to Hermione, leaving the heap of a body on the floor. Blood seeped through his robes and coated his hand. He raised his wand again, pointing it at her. "No, no, please don't hurt me, _please,_" she implored desperately; fresh tears sliding down her cheeks.

But much to her surprise, he did not aim to hurt her, and instead flicked his wand, causing her binding to fall loose. She slumped to the floor with a muffled thump, and looked up to see he was already walking away from her, vanishing into the black of night.

Without thinking, she clambered up, grabbed her wand from Greyback's pocket and sprinted after him. "No, wait! Stop!" she called frantically. She wanted to question why he saved her, but he didn't stop, he kept walking, and his hood fell from the breeze. It revealed a long mane of platinum hair that stopped at the mid of his back; and straight away, Hermione knew who it was.

A man no one would have expected.

...

Lucius crumpled to the ground from exhaustion and he was beginning to devoid of blood or vital energy. He glanced down at the four deep gashes lining his stomach, millilitres of blood leaking from the wounds.

Damn that Greyback, and damn her for getting into such a mess. His brain had been telling him to leave and get out while he could, as then he wouldn't end up in this mess. But something deep inside his chest, something untraceable, was telling him different, even if that had meant risking his own life.

It was unusual for him to save a Mud – Muggle-born, and it would bring shame upon him if anyone of his pure-blooded or Death-Eater companions had found out, indeed.

But when he had finally found a path through the dense fog of judgement, seeing what Voldemort was doing to people, to _children_, it was unbearable, from the very moment his own family had been involved in this – this screwed up situation, he knew humanity was changing greatly, and had no luck surviving or even recovering completely.

Admittedly, there was still a tiny dislike to _some _of the Muggle-borns', not focusing on their blood-status, but more that he had to finally admit that they were not – or never were in fact – inferior. No one would have believed it, but Lucius had always been opposed to executing them, especially the younger generation. For the first time in his god-forsaken life, he regretted the decision of becoming a Death-Eater.

It had all become much worse when his wife, Narcissa, had been killed for the intention of ending the death of Muggle-borns'. Even though she and Lucius had grown distant over the years, and had gradually stopped loving on another – she was still Draco's mother.

It wasn't right. His whole life hadn't been right. Only now did he realise Purebloods' weren't superior, and that Muggle-borns' were just as good as them, specifically the young Gryffindor girl he had just saved.

The sight of that brute Greyback touching the girl caused rage to burn in his veins. He supposedly hate the girl, despised her, but seeing her in so much fear and pain, and the moment he saw blood upon her cheek, his opinion had changed, for they were the same; they were both _human.i_

He hadn't really wanted to leave after saving her. He wanted to stay and see if she was okay, but he had to go, as he had an urgent job to fulfil.

His son.

His precious son.

Draco was still out there, alone, in the midst of battle. Lucius wasn't there to keep him safe, the one crucial thing that he keeps failing to do. He had treated him so horribly over the seventeen years of his life, but it didn't mean he did not love his son. Of course he loved him, he was his world, the only thing to keep him standing on the thin line between sanity and insanity.

He growled when another shooting pain erupted in his stomach, and stretched out on the grass, too weak to even lift an arm. He let out a tremor of breath, and the corners of his vision began to blacken, an unconscious tear slipping from his eye and into the dirt.

He _needed _to find his son.

...

Hermione weaved in and out of the trees, the tip of her wand producing enough light to guide her through the forest. It had only been around five minutes, but it felt as though it had been hours searching for the injured man.

Just when she was about to give up, a quiet, strained moan sounded to the right of her, and she twisted around to find a pale Lucius Malfoy lying on the floor, his whole body trembling, and a small pool of blood beneath him, his robes torn, showing the gaping cuts along his stomach.

It was too hard to not feel sorry for him. He wasn't the menacing or condescending man she had once known. Instead a fragile and scared _boy _took his place.

His eyes lifted and connected to hers, and soon enough they were empty, the puddles of grey devoid of any emotions, staring blankly at her. He broke the contact when he flinched in pain again, his body recoiling, hoping to ease the discomfort.

She released the breath she hadn't known she'd been holding. She approached him slowly, and his head snapped up. "Go," he ordered somewhat softly, his voice was pinched and raspy, and surprisingly, it caused Hermione's chest to ache uneasily. "Go. _Leave."_

She swallowed nervously. "I'm not g-going to leave you here," she stuttered barely above a whisper, and continued to stumble over to him.

"And why the hell not?" he demanded weakly, the past Malfoy starting to come into view. Hermione knelt down in front of him, yet Lucius did not move, continuing to stare up at her with tired eyes.

"Because, you're hurt."

"That much is obvious to me," he said, sucking in a sharp breath as another twinge of pain rippled through his stomach.

Hermione pulled out her wand from her boot. "And it's obvious you need helping," she reasoned. "I can heal these," she offered, pointing at his wounds. He flinched again, cowering back slightly at the pain and thought of being touched. "And if I do it now, it'll be much easier."

His eyes suddenly turned sad. "Why would you want to help _me?_" he asked, his voice so low it was hard to hear. "Why would you want to help someone like me?" he repeated, and to her shock it all became clear, materialising in such painful clarity. It was as if all the layers he had built over the past to hide true colours had seemingly shattered from the pressure of forced obedience, the overpowering of his master, and the stunned realization that his world was crumbling around him.

"Because you did the same for me," she replied softly, giving her best of an attempted smile, causing a light cramp to squeeze Lucius' chest, though it could have been mistaken for pain again.

With those words, some thinking and Hermione's help, Lucius slowly and carefully sat up and shuffled back to lean on a tree. When he was most confortable, she started to unbutton his robes, but his hand shot out and grasped her hand, halting her. "What are you doing?"

"Mr. Malfoy –"

"Please, call me Lucius, using something so formal makes me feel as old as this tree I'm leaning on."

She cleared her throat. "Lucius, the only way for me to successfully heal your wound and rule out any infections, is for it to be done with the skin completely bare. But you can do the job of taking off your shirt if you're uncomfortable with me doing it," she replied, her cheeks glowing a delicate shade of red.

He shook his head wearily. "No, no, I am far too tired to do it myself, carry on," he insisted, relaxing his posture and closing his eyes.

Nodding, Hermione continued to remove his robes. He winced when she slid off the garment, the fabric rubbing across his injuries roughly. His pallid complexion stood out in the darkness, and although he looked frail and weak, his muscles were prominent and chiselled.

Not only did he have the fresh wounds from Greyback that were far deeper than she had previously thought, he also had what looked like either past or recent scarring, that travelled down from his collarbone, all the way to his waist.

"Did _he _do this to you?" she asked absentmindedly, not intending to ask him that, but it slipped from her lips at it's own accord.

"Well, yes, you saw him do it –"

"No, not those wounds, these," she said, boldly tracing her fingertips over the faint marred skin, making Lucius shiver involuntarily under her touch. "Did The Dark Lord do this to you?" she asked, knowing that if she had said Voldemort's name, they would be tracked.

He shuddered under his spoken Master. "Yes," he whispered, afraid to even speak of him. "Yes, he did."

Noticing his troubled posture, she carried on with healing, hovering her wand over his stomach. "This may sting," she warned, and Lucius braced himself, and sucked in a deep breath when cold water spurted over the wound, cleansing it and washing away the dirt.

"Sorry," she mumbled, seeing Lucius' face scrunched up. "It's nearly over. I just need to use a healing charm."

"That's quite okay," he assured her, and sighed when a sudden warmth spread over his stomach, following by a tingling sensation as new skin joined together, leaving yet another scar full of memories to mark his body. "Thank you," he mumbled, his breathing returning to normal.

Hermione eyed him uncertainly, and then daringly whispered, "You don't have concussion do you, or happen to hit your head anytime this evening?"

Despite the given circumstances around them, he snorted quietly. "No, I have not, though you must only be wondering due to my sudden manners towards you." He sighed heavily. "If you must know – as you are a persistent little chit – I hardly see the point anymore, seeing as my judgment has finally unclouded."

She scooted forward, narrowing her eyes. "Since when?"

He glanced up, and though he looked slightly grave and his eyes were hardening, he still managed to raise his eyebrows at her interest. "Since the ones I care about became unintentionally involved."

"Why would that have anything to do with Mudbloods?" Hermione questioned, still not fully convinced. For once, to her surprise, the older Malfoy's mouth tightened in a grim line when she used the insult.

He shook his head, as though he was judging himself. "Well, even I was misguided years ago. It was what pureblooded families did. Sometimes I think that somewhere perhaps I never really believed of the judgment of Half-Blood's and Muggle-borns, but again, when I had joined as a follower of The Dark Lord, it was as though he had brainwashed us all, controlling what we believed in. I was forced to be that way to avoid death. Only now, when I see how much he's capable of, what he is doing do I regret all decisions in life that I made."

"So, you were only the way you were towards me, because you were scared in a way? Or what could happen? To yourself and your family?" she asked, having the sudden impulse to reach over and comfort him. It was strange how he was suddenly so open, though she was quite pleased that he was.

He scoffed, though the shimmer of fear was evident. "More than scared, and more than for myself. It was mostly for my son," he suddenly realized that was what he was supposed to be doing, and looked up at Hermione hopefully. "You haven't seen him, have you? I need to find him."

Sadly, she shook her head, her eyes sorrowful. "The last time I saw him was in the Room of Requirement, after that, he ran off. But he isn't one to participate in such a war, he's safe."

He nodded and shifted against the tree. "Why are you here?" he asked suddenly, his voice grave, looking up into her eyes again, "Why are you helping me? I deserved what Greyback did to me, and you should have left me here, should have left me here to die." He proved to be a man who was adamant in believing something.

She shook her head before he finished his sentence. "No, you didn't. You may be arrogant and judgmental, but you're not evil. Even someone like you, Lucius, doesn't deserve such pain."

"But after everything I did to you, caused you, surely that would convince you not to help?"

She pondered his words, "Perhaps," she admitted, "If I were still twelve. But I think you've learnt from your mistakes and regret some things you did to others. As for me? I think a forgiveness is appropriate after saving my life."

It was as though the dwindling thread of uncomfortable tension had suddenly been cut, and the air became thick enough to choke on from the charged energy and heat that was neither caused by the smoke, nor the static of her magic, barely having time to react in surprise as his strong arms wrapped around her waist and pulled her to curl against his warm chest.

She instinctively snaked her arms around his neck and tugged him closer so his head rested in the soft, crook of her neck. It lasted a few moments; the tender warm gathering between their bodies, and Hermione felt a pleasant ache in her chest when she felt the gentle caress of his rough lips against her forehead. "Thank you," he whispered softly, threading his fingers through her mussed tresses.

The hole that had once been in Lucius' chest was now beginning to heal. Slowly and gradually it was fusing together, and it was all because of the _woman _he was hugging. All because of her, he was starting to become stronger again – become mortal.

They broke apart finally, and smiled at each other. Hermione helped lift them both from the ground, their hands intertwined. They both knew they had to leave now, to find their friends and family. But both were certain that it wasn't the last time they'd see each other, for the future held unexpected possibilities.

Hermione squeezed his hand one last time before pulling it away and starting to walk backwards. "Your son awaits you, Lucius."

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**the end**

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_thank you for taking the time to read yet another one of my one-shots. It means a lot to me._


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